


Every star and every wave and every place in the world

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, M/M, Sea imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 07:36:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17260184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: Yes, these are uncertain times. He can't say where life will lead them, he can't be sure. No one can. But he can give this promise, held in place by stitches and delicate breaths. Almost invisible, but there, like his love.A short story about hope, belonging and new beginnings.





	Every star and every wave and every place in the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lafiametta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/gifts), [onstraysod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/gifts).



> Inspired by the prompts “by candlelight" and "new beginnings". Also by Suzanne Vega, who is amazing!
> 
> Speaking of amazing, this is dedicated to the brilliant lafiametta and onstraysod, who organised this fantastic fandom event, which basically saved my holiday season! I hope that this little fic is OK! Nothing says "thank you" like a fluffy story from a random person, right? ;) Happy new year! <3

one thing I know  
this pain will go

step through all that's left to feel  
I wait to meet my love made real

Suzanne Vega: [Birth-Day (Love made real).](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q-atxLbFl4M)

*

Now you appear.  
Making your claim.  
Inside my heart  
Is the sign of your name.

And I ask  
I am asking you  
Asking you if you  
Might still want me?  
[...]  
When I said:  
I am bound to you forever  
Here's what I meant:  
I am bound to you forever.

Suzanne Vega: [Bound](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rod7yk002Sc).

*

These are uncertain times. There is still so much darkness here, so much cold, like a phantom pain. And yet. And _yet_ , the sun rises again, and there are things that he knows for sure. Almost as if he didn't have to, because of what he has seen. What he has felt.

(This is what he knows. Dignity. Kindness. Loyalty. The way his heart beats. And yes, another unexpected sunrise. Warmth, after so long and so little and so _much_. It doesn't hurt so much now. This is what he _feels_.)

And in the evening, the room is quiet and candle-lit, and he speaks softly, with his head on John's breast, with his hand safely cradled in his. His touch is like paper, like a whisper, like a sigh. Soft, like a feather. _Tell me the story_ , he says, again.

And again, John tells him. He tells him about the ships and the waves and the old, faded image on the inside of his wrist, a keepsake from the first time he went out to sea, all those years ago. Way back then, the sea became his home. And that's where it all ended. It was just a story, but he had nothing else.

No, he had nothing, until they found each other. Until that moment, like a leap of faith, like seeing everything, every star and every wave and every place in the world. Like tracing unknown paths, and being brave enough to go where they lead.

Now Harry's hand finds and traces that same ink. His finger pressed to his wrist is the needle now, and it leaves a mark behind. There is a map in his veins now. It is drawn and printed within him. It sets a course. And it is wonderful and it is _right_. It means something else now, something new. It almost speaks, it says that he belongs to him. _With_ him, here, completely. Like a prayer, like a wordless code just between the two of them, that says don't go, _don't go_.

And he won't. How could he? There is no other place for him. No, there is _not_ , no other port than these arms, tender and kind. These hands on his heart, rough, but not unpleasant. Comfortable, like the home where this unspoken love lives, deep within. It beats, closer. Closer to him, to belong, to carry his words.

Yes, these are uncertain times. He can't say where life will lead them, he can't be sure. No one can. But he can give this promise, held in place by stitches and delicate breaths. Almost invisible, but _there_ , like his love. And he would pack it up, carefully. He would make a gift of it, like a ship in a bottle, a curiosity. Like sea and sand, like a handful of rain. It doesn't seem enough, but still, he would lay it at his feet. All the words in his books, all the ink on his skin. All for him, all for him. For him, and all the stars, all the little stars in his skin and in his eyes.

There is another story here. Here, in this little room, warm like a blanket, with his books and papers and sunlight. And his name is there, close to his heart, traced over and over, so many times, late at night, by needle and later, much later, by candlelight. His name, forever, right there. His name is the whole story. His name is everything. His name _is_. And he will carry it with him, wherever he goes.

And his fingertips find a heartbeat, tender and comforting, like a small prayer. And this is his home, this is the story now. And he sits down and writes, to say it, to make it known somehow. To _tell_ him. No, he won't leave. But he will sleep. Here, with him. Here, always right here, like new beginnings, facing the wind, like sunlight, like hope.


End file.
